


Ain't Got the Symbol, But Still Got the Fight

by originalblue



Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Guns, M/M, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Polyamory, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-06 20:09:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1870767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/originalblue/pseuds/originalblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't possible. He'd rather believe that this was some cruel joke, that it was Jason Todd from another universe, that there was evil scientist cloning involved, anything, because what his eyes were telling him wasn't possible.</p><p>Stephanie Brown couldn't be Knightshade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black + Blue + Green

No one had prepared Damian for the loneliness of patrolling. Since his first day as Robin, he'd been under his father or Grayson's constant supervision. First out of necessity, since he'd been prone to stabbing first and asking questions later, and then out of habit, because Batman and Robin worked best as a team.

But somehow, in his seven-year uphill struggle to prove himself, he'd accidentally done it. And Nightwing had casually suggested that he begin taking his own routes. And he'd turned to his father, questioning, not daring to let hope show in his eyes, and his father had actually _agreed._

Now the city loomed before him, yawning in the darkness. Towers and arches soared above East Gotham, covered in a residue of condensation and soot that clung to all it touched. Damian often observed that the people themselves weren't much better.

He wondered how he could have ever thought he belonged elsewhere.

The city called to him, whispering about crimes and the capacity for evil that lurked in the heart of every rational-minded citizen. Sour deals, mob business, chemical-induced madness – it sloughed off the rooftops like some horrible song, mixing with the smog and light pollution.

Lately, there'd been a new tune.

He'd caught murmurs of a new masked face in Gotham's seedy underbelly. Someone whose modus operandi was disturbing close to that of a certain former Robin.

Methodical as his father in his own way, Damian had taken his time. He'd spent a week researching and confirming the vigilante's existence before he was forced to acknowledge that the similarities couldn't possibly be coincidence.

All of Damian's findings pointed towards a second Red Hood.

He knew theoretically that it was impossible, that Todd worked quickly and cleanly and had never shown a desire to train a replacement.

But the vigilante calling herself Knightshade certainly existed. And Damian was mostly sure that she wasn't just Todd from another dimension, here by mistake. Mostly sure. Stranger things had happened.

In the end, his search had proved fruitful. He'd found her. Hopefully.

There were a dozen bodies around him, mostly unconscious if he was any judge, and the warehouse echoed faintly with gunfire and shouting. He slunk forward, listening intently as the yells got louder; he knew he was nearing his target. Breaking up the drug ring was nice, but getting a set of trustworthy eyes on Knightshade was more important.

The building schematics he'd downloaded into his mask indicated that the steel-lined storage locker in the basement was where the ring kept their product; it would also be where they gathered in case of an emergency. And from what Damian could see and hear, Knightshade definitely counted as an emergency.

After finding a third hallway full of unconscious guards, he decided he had better things to do than avoid stepping on thugs' fingers. He located a convenient vent in the ceiling, unscrewed the panel, and heaved himself into the air shaft. Now he could do his work unimpeded.

The locker was easy to find, but the shaft narrowed here, and his shoulders pressed uncomfortably against the sides. He silently cursed his last growth spurt, which had left him three inches taller and fifteen pounds heavier. He felt _uncomfortably_ large, unable to compensate for his elongated limbs and broader frame.

Luckily, voices filtered in from the vent a foot in front of him. He couldn't see much through the grate besides boxes, but if he stayed still, he could hear what they were saying.

“-so don't you fucking tell me that you didn't know what was going through here. You _swore_ to me that it was only cocaine.”

That had to be Knightshade. The voice was familiar. He frowned and shifted forward, trying to get a line of sight.

“I didn't know! I promise!” Damian heard a thump that might have been the drug dealer falling to his knees. “They never told me anything! I'm just the delivery guy, no details-”

“-no guts?” Knightshade said coldly, and Damian's brow creased. That voice was so familiar it itched at him, but he knew somehow he'd never heard that tone before.

Tucking himself carefully inwards, he glanced through the vent at last.

There were eight men on the ground around a pool table, all in various stages of unconsciousness. Some of them still held the sticks they'd been using when their assailant had entered the room.

Knightshade stood half in the shadows, facing away from him. She was around five foot eight, solidly built with close-cropped dirty-blonde hair. She wore some kind of jacket with the hood drawn back, but he couldn't tell the color in this low light. What he _could_ see was the shape of heavy body armor beneath the fabric; she'd come prepared for a fight. And as she gestured absently to the boxes around her, a flash of metal caught his eye – metal plates sewn into sleeves on her outer forearms, good for deflecting blows and edged weapons. Beneath the sleeves she wore leather fighting gloves, their hardened knuckle-protectors reflecting the dim light.

He didn't realize he'd missed the holsters on her hips until she'd drawn a pistol and fired. It grazed her informant's cheek and set him babbling.

“Now,” she continued, ignoring his pleading, “Are you sure there isn't a 'sorry' in there somewhere?”

Instantly, the man began to apologize, and she scoffed, running her free hand through her short hair. The man before her stank of sweat and fear; Damian could smell it from ten feet away.

“You think I'm that nice?” she asked, crouching next to him.

He shook his head mutely. She chuckled, and Damian could hear the smile in her voice. “Well, you're right. I'm not.”

She reached her free hand forward and stroked his left biceps, then put one booted foot on his shoulder.

“No, please,” he begged, screwing his eyes shut.

She ignored him, and wrenched his arm sideways with a pop. The man gasped, then went purple and grey, and began to shriek. From what Damian could see, she'd dislocated his arm with a surgeon's precision. She'd obviously had practice.

He knew that he should step in now, that that's what Batman would do, but he couldn't look away. She was mesmerizing.

“That's for lying to me,” she said coolly. “Do it again, and I'll break both your hands.” He heard her boots scuff on the concrete as she shifted her weight. “Scram. There's a free clinic on 84th Street that'll fix that up for you, if you're nice about it.”

The man staggered out, clutching his arm and sniveling.

Knightshade sighed, holstering her gun. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she called in a singsong voice, finally looking towards the air shaft. “You're obviously not one of these druggie idiots, so you'd better come say hello before I get offended.” Her tone was friendly, but her blue eyes were dead serious. Her short hair framed a round face with a button nose and a scar through her left eyebrow.

Damian froze, staring at her. It wasn't possible.

With some difficulty, he pulled open the vent and wriggled through, dropping to one knee on the floor below, his black cape spread around him.

Knightshade grinned delightedly, straightening her jacket's hood around her shoulders. “'Sup, Boy Wonder.”

It wasn't possible. He'd rather believe that this was some cruel joke, that it _was_ Jason Todd from another universe, that there was evil scientist cloning involved, _anything_ , because what his eyes were telling him wasn't possible.

Stephanie Brown couldn't be Knightshade.

“You-” he choked out, tension lining his shoulders. “But you-” He stopped. He had no idea how to begin to voice the extent of his outrage and bewilderment.

“I what?” she asked, fishing in one pocket. She pulled out a pack of gum and popped a stick into her mouth, chewing it noisily. “I look awesome with short hair?” She ran a hand through it, shaking out some plaster dust.

He had to admit privately that she _did_ look good. The last time he'd seen her, she'd worn her hair long, to the middle of her back. But now the locks framed her face, and accentuated the hard lines of her domino mask.

But he wasn't about to tell _her_ that.

He crossed his arms and scoffed. “You drop off the radar for _months_ , everyone refuses to speak to me about your mysterious disappearance, and now you show up like _this_?” He gestured to the new outfit, the new look, the new feeling she gave off.

She didn't feel like a Bat anymore, and that scared him more than he liked to admit. She'd always played a large part in his ideal notion of their work. Having her be this – someone without ties, without a symbol stretched across her chest, when she'd once fought so hard to wear the Bat – was deeply disturbing.

But Stephanie just shrugged, snapping her gum. “Guess Daddybats forgot to tell you that he fired me.”

Damian felt cold all over. “That's a lie,” he croaked, willing himself to believe it. Having his father force Stephanie out secretly was almost worse than her leaving on her own.

Her blue eyes flickered to his. “I don't know what to tell you, dude.” She carefully selected a clean looking crate and perched on the edge, crossing her ankles. “I got kicked off Team Bat. Not the first time that's happened, but it still hurt.” She looked at Damian, eyebrows raised above her mask. “What, did you miss me or something?”

He automatically opened his mouth to say _You've mistaken me for someone who cares,_ but swallowed it back down. “Your absence has left a gap in our patrol routes,” he replied instead, voice stiff with frustration and an emotion he couldn't name. “It's been... strange, not having you around.” _The mansion feels empty,_ he wanted to say. _Gotham was darker without you._

When she smiled, he knew she could tell what he meant. “You always were the nice one,” she said, and he frowned.

“Please. I have no interest in being nice.” He looked around. “And perhaps we should relocate for this conversation?” The men lying on the floor had shown no signs of moving, but he'd still prefer a measure of privacy.

She shrugged. “We've got about half an hour before those goons wake up. I knocked them out and dosed them.”

“And the police?” He had no idea how she was going to cuff or otherwise secure all these people.

“No police today,” she said, tapping the side of her nose. “Today's just to get them running to their supplier for more. That's the real target. Next time I'll bag 'em and tag 'em, pinky-swear.” She held up her pinky to demonstrate, and he rolled his eyes.

She smiled wryly in return. “I'll say it again – you never were the most 'fun' of the Batkids, but you've learned a little bit about nice. Besides, it seems like you got through puberty without stabbing anyone fatally. That's a monumental task for even the best behaved assassin kiddies. You've got some niceness chops, baby bro. Deal with it.”

“Don't call me that,” he said instantly, mouth curving tightly into a frown. He intensely disliked being called 'baby' anything, especially by her. And the 'brother' remark rankled as well, for all that he undoubtedly considered her family. It felt... distasteful... to think of her as his sister, although he knew that they were siblings under the Bat. Or at least they had been.

She raised an eyebrow. “Baby bro's got a sore spot, huh?” She tilted her head back and positively _cackled_ . “Oh, man, D, I am going to get _all_ sorts of revenge on you for the three years of Fatgirl I endured.”

He looked down and away, remembering the first time he'd called her Stephanie. He'd been working on one of the Batmobile's engines, and had absentmindedly ordered, “Stephanie, pass me that wrench.” In hindsight, he wished the moment could have been more meaningful, but she'd just smiled and handed him the wrench and said that maybe he was _actually_ growing up now.

He looked at her now, strong and lithe and more muscled than she'd been while in his father's employ. It seemed that leaving the Batcave had done her good, letting her specialize in ways that the Batgirl persona had not. Her attire was proof enough of that. She'd eliminated the cape, and the ears, and the symbol. Everything unnecessary. Even her hair. Now she could fade into her environment, disappearing into crowds with one zip of her hoodie.

He was so angry with himself. He should have noticed her absence earlier. He shouldn't have assumed that she would leave of her own volition. He shouldn't have let himself feel abandoned, or resentful, that one of the few people he considered truly trustworthy should disappear from his life so abruptly.

But he'd been spoiled. That was, he would grudgingly admit, one of his greatest flaws. He expected other people to constantly orient themselves to him.

Now was his chance to correct this error in judgment. Given time, he hoped he could sway his father's opinion and invite her back to the Bats. At the very least, he could keep her alive until that time came.

“Gotham isn't safe for you,” he said at last. “If you have any sense of self-preservation, you'll stop this nonsense.” He looked pointedly at her jacket, which he could see now was an iridescent purple with yellow trim. It reminded him intensely of racing stripes on a car, and he found himself missing the sleekness of her Batgirl uniform.

Her demeanor changed at his words, face and stance hardening into ice. “Not gonna happen, D. Not in a million fucking years.” She stood up and crossed the few feet between them. She was shorter than him now, and he probably had more muscle, but she was built for close-combat brawling.

“Don't you fucking talk to me like that, D,” she said, and her gum-sweet breath wafted over his face.

He wrinkled his nose. “I'm simply telling you the truth.” He could see her face clearly now, the faded bruises and scars left by a decade of crime fighting. “Without backup in the field, you'll die.”

She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Who says I don't have backup?” Her gaze flicked from his face to just over his shoulder, and he spun around, almost bumping into the huge man who stood behind him.

“Well, well, well,” said Jason Todd with a grin, crossing his arms. “This _is_ a party.” He had his helmet off, so Damian could see that he'd dyed his hair black again, leaving one thick white stripe across his forehead.

Damian tensed immediately; he didn't trust anyone that large who could move that quietly. And his stance was too relaxed, too self-assured. Anyone who had gone through both Father's and Mother's training and come out with that sort of confidence was dangerous.

“What do you want, Todd?” he half-snarled, backing up against a pile of crates to keep them both in view. Todd was half a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than he was; in such close quarters, Damian would have no chance of winning a fist-fight.

“Just dropping by to say hello,” Todd continued, tone mild, walking over to where Stephanie stood. “You been making trouble, little sis?” he teased, looking her over fondly. “Been playing with birdies?”

She propped a gloved-hand on one armored hip. “As if. You know I don't play with my food.” She licked her lips, drawing attention to the peachy sheen of her lipstick.

Todd's eyes lit up, and he leaned down to brush a kiss over Stephanie's mouth. She twisted a warning hand in the front of his jacket. “Don't push it,” she muttered, and he chuckled, stealing another before stepping away.

Damian hated that, hated the way they just ignored him, like he wasn't even enough of a threat to keep eyes on. He also hated the way Todd stood close to Stephanie, like he belonged there, like he had any right to even _look_ at her-

He exhaled hard, through his nose, flexing his fingers. “This has been charming,” he said acidly, “But I was hoping to speak to Knightshade _alone_.”

Todd simply raised an eyebrow and turned to Stephanie. “Is he always such a brat?” he asked, and Damian's fists tightened until he could feel the bones creaking.

Stephine groaned. “Can we not do this now, boys?”

“What did you call me?” Damian asked Todd, almost breathless with anger. He resisted the urge to draw his kali, the truncheon-like weapons strapped to his waist. There was no room in here to use them.

But Todd must have seen the twitch in his hands, because he moved first, and Damian immediately shifted to dodge.

He needn't have bothered. While the boys had focused on each other, Stephanie had moved. She spun and slammed one of her boots into Todd's chest, knocking him into a pile of crates. When he groaned and tried to get up, she was immediately on him, gun pressed to his forehead.

Damian stood frozen, still crouched in a defensive position. He'd never seen her move so quickly or smoothly, but then again he hadn't patrolled with her in years.

Stephanie caught the confusion in his glance and smiled. “Our other favorite assassin kid showed me a thing or two last time I visited Hong Kong,” she explained. “She's kind of the queen of kicking ass.” She turned her attention back to the swearing pile of vigilante at the other end of her gun.

“Now, Jay,” she said playfully, her eyes hard. “One of these days you should really learn to get along with your little brothers.” Her gun hand flexed; obviously she hadn't forgotten Drake and Todd's first real meeting and subsequent fight.

“He started it,” Todd grunted, sitting up and rubbing his ribs. “I was being polite.” Her kick had nailed him squarely in the chest, and Damian would be surprised if she hadn't at least bruised his sternum.

Stephanie sighed in exasperation, lowering her gun. “Jay, you could start a bar fight with a 'good evening' if you felt like it. Now stand up, and go the fuck home. I'll stop by later.” She holstered the pistol and patted his cheek.

When he got to his feet, his mouth twisted in a wry smile. “You're a real firecracker, ma'am.” Then he leaned down and kissed her for real, soft and slow, fingers cupping her jaw.

Damian looked away, his mouth a tight line.

He clenched and unclenched his fists in irritation, partly because of Todd's presence and domineering manner, but mostly because of the way these two were obviously involved. Todd had Batman's disapproval, and that meant he was toxic. Stephanie's... _dalliance_ with him would make her toxic by association, whether or not she actively broke Batman's rules. Damian told himself that was the only reason he was uncomfortable with them being together.

Thankfully, Todd was leaving. He shot Damian a grin that was returned with a heated glare, and walked out, whistling something rude.

He flinched when a gloved hand settled on his shoulder. When had Stephanie gotten so _quiet_? Two people had snuck up on him in the last ten minutes. Was he going deaf?

“Listen up class. _That_ is what happens when you fuck with Jay,” she said, not unkindly. “And that kick? That's what happens when you fuck with _me._ ” She zipped her hoodie halfway, leaving part of her armored chest bare (not that he was looking).

She mistook his glance and grimaced. “I know. I miss having it too.” She pressed one gloved palm to her chest. “When I was wearing the Bat, I felt like nothing could stop me. Like I was invincible. Like people would care if I died.”

“People do care,” he replied hotly. He was furious that she would think otherwise. “Are you telling me that Oracle and Black Bat wouldn't care? Proxy? Supergirl? Red Robin? Nightwing would be completely inconsolable. You know how he is.”

Stephanie laughed. “I _do_ know how he is.” She gave him that half-smile that made something in his chest twinge. “Thanks, Robin.” She looked him up and down. “But you're getting kind of old for that now, aren't you?”

Damian shrugged. “I've spoken to Batman about adopting a new alias in the future. He voiced no objections.”

“And Nightwing?”

He winced. “Enthusiastically forcing me to hold swatches of every color known to man. He doesn't seem to grasp the concept of stealth.”

Stephanie laughed again, brighter and fuller than before. “He's really the _last_ person you want to go to for fashion advice. Have you ever seen pictures of his first Nightwing suit?”

He grimaced. “Unfortunately.”

“Well, at least you can't go _that_ wrong,” she chuckled. “Thank god mullets aren't in fashion anymore.”

“They were never in fashion,” he retorted. “Besides, I won't be taking fashion advice from you either. You look like that preposterous talking dinosaur on that children's television show.”

The smile she turned towards him was delighted. “Oh my god, _Barney_? You've actually seen that? That's awesome. Besides, it's all part of the plan. If they're staring at my awesome sweatshirt, they're not looking at my fists.” She let her fist thunk her other palm in a mock punch. “Then I've got 'em.”

“A sound plan of attack, I'm sure,” he said. “But I meant what I said before. You need backup. And not just Todd,” he ground out. “He might be an acceptable partner in other respects, but he is still-” he stopped. He'd been about to say _He's still not one of us_ , but there was no 'us' anymore. Damian was a Bat, and Stephanie was not. There was nothing more to say.

Thankfully, Stephanie seemed to understand, and she gave him a watery smile. “What, are you volunteering or something? Wanna be my wingman?” she joked.

He didn't deign to acknowledge the wordplay, simply reached into one of his belt pouches and pulled out a communicator. “If you're ever in life-threatening trouble, use this. We can't afford to lose any more of our ranks.”

Stephanie gave him a look, but he stayed silent. He meant it. Even if she wasn't a Bat anymore, she still fought for the same side.

She took it gingerly, running her fingers over the embossed Bat symbol. “Thanks, D,” she said finally, still looking at it, and it sounded like she meant it. “Thanks a lot.”

“It's nothing,” he began to say, but the look on her face said that it _was_ something, so he simply nodded.

“I can trust you to take care of this?” he asked eyeing the crates packed with smuggled drugs.

She reached into the back of her belt and pulled out a small bottle. “Never leave home without my handy dandy acid spray.” She pressed down on the nozzle, and he flinched out of the way too late. He instinctively held up his hands to block his face, shutting his eyes as the spray settled.

When it failed to burn or sting, he opened them again. He licked the liquid off his lips; it was water. He glared at her, outraged.

Her mischievous grin turned into giggles as she began to laugh, doubling over to wheeze. “Your face,” she gasped, tucking the bottle away. “Oh man, that was priceless.” She wiped her eyes and smiled. “You really need to relax, D. One of these days you're gonna give yourself an aneurysm.” She looked around them, at the unconscious men by the pool table, at the crates of drugs, and sighed. “Don't worry. All of this is getting shipped to the Gotham City Vice Squad. They've got the resources to dispose of this stuff safely.”

With one last withering look, Damian turned to leave. “Goodbye, Fatgirl,” he called over his shoulder as he left, and he heard her make an indignant noise.

“Fuck off, Boy Blunder,” she shouted at him, but he could hear the smile in her voice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art's mine - I've drawn more Steph stuff over at [my sketchblog.](sketchydespair.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

As it turned out, finding the moment to demand an explanation from his father was more difficult than he'd presumed it would be. The Cave was empty, save for the two of them, and the silence and the darkness pressed in uncomfortably. Damian swallowed down a hope that Stephanie would miraculously show up. She definitely would have had something acerbic to say about an assassin-trained Bat being afraid of the dark.

Thinking about her helped rekindle some of the anger that had been sitting his chest, hot and sticky and hurting, since last night.

“Father,” he began finally, when he was sure that his father wasn't working on anything important. “Father, I need to speak with you.”

Bruce Wayne's heavy fingers paused on the keypad, and he looked up, blue eyes seeking out his son's. “Yes, Damian?” he said, gravelly voice almost odd when not issuing from a cowled face.

“It concerns Stephanie Brown,” Damian continued, studying his father's reaction closely.

There _was_ no visible reaction. But Damian knew not to trust this, knew that his father's control of his expressions was so complete that any emotion would surely be intentionally shown. Right now, his father's face remained unreadable.

So. They had to do this the hard way.

Taking a deep breath, Damian leaned back against the control panel and crossed his arms. “You fired her.”

His father didn't move, didn't even blink, invoking some of the stillness he was famous for.

“She never worked for me,” his father said at last. “Yes, she was Batgirl for a time, but that was Oracle's doing. She's responsible.” There was the faintest undercurrent of annoyance in his words, and Damian seized it.

“But you fired her,” he insisted. “She was a member of our team. She fought for _us –_ with _us_ – and you fired her.”

All was quiet except the hum of the screens.

“Ask your question, Damian.” The words came out flat, clinical, like he was in the middle of a debriefing.

Damian stared at his father. “ _Why_ did you dismiss her?” he asked at last, and cleared the sticky feeling from his throat. “And why have you remained silent about her dismissal?” _Why have you required the others to remain silent as well?_ he added silently.

His father finally moved, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands in front of him. “There was no reason to tell you. She disobeyed a direct order, and after considering the matter for some time, I came to the conclusion she was more of a liability than an asset. I informed her of my decision, and she took her leave.”

Heat rose under Damian's lungs, making him want to jump up and shout in his father's face. After a moment's struggle with himself, he resisted the urge. “I wasn't aware you had the right to dismiss those of us who disagree with you.” He tried not to let the volume of his words rise, tried to maintain his calm demeanor. “Did her 'disobedience' result in harm to anyone or the jeopardization of a mission?”

“She broke a man's spine,” his father said, blue eyes meeting his. His mouth was set in a hard thin line. “She didn't kill him, but it was an unnecessary violence.”

“Who was the man?”

His father looked away. “The Mad Hatter.”

Damian's breath hissed out through his teeth. The man was a child molester and a psychopath, and more than once Damian had considered using a little extra force if ever apprehending him.

“He had a hostage with him, and he was armed. I ordered her not to approach him, and she disobeyed. In order to subdue him, she used nearly lethal force.”

“And the hostage? A child, I presume?”

“Safe. Returned home by Red Robin.” His father turned back to the keyboard. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work.”

Damian sat silently for a moment. So Drake had been there. Had he done nothing to defend Stephanie?

“Father.”

His father looked up, a hint of disapproval in his gaze. “Yes?”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

For a moment, Damian thought he saw a flicker of something else in his father's eyes, but it was gone. “She was a distraction,” his father said. “Besides, her absence had nothing to do with you, so I saw no reason to inform you.”

“She was my – my friend,” Damian hissed. “You knew that.”

His stumble seemed to interest his father. “She regularly pulled you away from training and research to indulge in mundane tasks. Her presence was detrimental to your development.”

He was referring to the times when Stephanie had taken Damian out for ice cream or to see a concert in one of Gotham's parks, or when she quietly turned off Damian's alarm clock and let him sleep more than his usual six hours. She'd brought over movies and snacks and sat up with him all night on the anniversary of his death, something no one else had thought to do. Those things were not, in Damian's opinion, detrimental to his physical, social, or emotional development in _any_ way.

Damian stood, vibrating with barely concealed anger. “I am old enough to determine the limits of my own development, Father,” he ground out. “And there is no reason for you to police my actions or my associations. You've invaded my privacy and dismissed someone dedicated to our cause.” He knew better than to expect an apology. Bruce Wayne apologized for very little, and Batman for even less.

He was right. His father regarded him calmly, as though waiting for him to come to his senses and realize that Batman was always in the right.

He turned and stalked out, too furious to continue looking at his father's stoney features. For once, he was glad he resembled his mother more.

\-----

The day's training went very poorly. He hadn't slept well – had hardly slept at all, actually – and it showed. His reflexes and attacks were subpar, his mind elsewhere, and he was glad the mansion was empty. No one but his father's security system would witness his poor performance.

And to be frank, his father could go fuck himself.

Stephanie was alive and well, and that was more than Damian had expected after more than six months of radio silence. He'd considered the option that she'd been on undercover work during that time, but there there had been nothing in any of his father's databases about Stephanie's whereabouts or progress. The system that monitored the vital signs of Batman's team had had Stephanie's name expunged.

Now he knew, of course, that she'd never _really_ left. She'd been in East Gotham with Todd, building a name and a reputation for herself as Knightshade. And now she was a vigilante again. A different kind of vigilante maybe, one that didn't flinch at using heavy violence against criminals, but so far she'd kept to the no-kill rule. She'd built herself back up, gotten herself new gear and a new partner and a new code. Her own, this time, forged from her will and her work and her unending belief in people. She hadn't seriously hurt that man last night, just made sure he would never lie to her again. She'd knocked out the goons and gotten rid of the product and Damian was sure that she'd do the same when she reached their supplier.

And his father had fired her. The thought stuck in his mind.

There was a sick feeling in his stomach that came from knowing that yes, _of course_ his father would have done it this way. He would have ordered the others not to tell Damian, would have made Stephanie's name a taboo in their household, the same way Todd's was. Damian wanted to drive to Wayne Industries and scream at his father, ask him why, why had he taken away one of Damian's few friends, why had he deprived someone who was so smart and strong and funny of the chance to make a difference?

But she was here, now, on her way to becoming something that might be foolish or deadly or both. When the others returned to the mansion in the evening, Damian intended to make his immense displeasure known to the entire family, loudly, fully employing his command of thirteen languages – four of them dead – but that would have to wait.

He sighed, returning to his research.

Around noon, he finished a project and saved it to Oracle's database for her convenience, eating a protein bar and some almonds. He wandered around the mansion for a few minutes, stretching, looking at the new paintings his father had acquired, before a beep on his cell phone let him know that his encryption program had finally finished its most recent task.

Damian's eyebrows rose when he saw the decoded file's name, but he shrugged it off and returned to his room.

He would readily admit that it was partially morbid curiosity that had driven him to watch the security tapes of his death.

Logically, he knew there was little merit to examining the day's events for the seventeenth time. He'd already gleaned everything possible from the experience, and there was no real reason for him to peruse the tapes' contents again.

But a few weeks ago he'd found a new one in a hidden subfolder marked 'Batcave.' It hadn't been watched since his father had created the folder concerning his death, so it must not have been vital to the report. But he'd seen fit to include it in the file, so obviously the cave had been occupied. Why would his father bother to encrypt it so heavily?

He wrinkled his nose. He hoped that it wasn't of a sexual nature. If he had to remind Nightwing and Oracle that the Cave was not for recreational use _one_ more time-

He rechecked that the door to his room was locked, then double-clicked on the video file.

He blinked.

It was Stephanie. She sat lazily in one of the swivel chairs in front of the computer bank, eating a box of Chinese take-out. Her hands shone in the dim light of the cave, slick with oil from her food.

She shoved her bangs back from her face and swore as the grease from her fingers transferred into her hair. Damian smiled.

Then he saw a flicker on the screen, and knew that she was watching the fight that had ended his life.

Stephanie looked up, food immediately set aside and forgotten. She spoke quietly into the headset, obviously to Oracle or Proxy, and stood up, leaning her fists on the counter.

It was strange to see himself from this perspective. He knew he'd been young at the time of his death, but he seemed tiny on that screen, especially compared to Stephanie, who had already been an accomplished woman and vigilante.

He watched himself engage the Heretic, watched himself dodge a thrust that would have decapitated anyone less agile, then saw the Heretic move in for the kill.

And the sword thrust through him. He shivered, hand pressing against his chest unconsciously. He still felt the phantom pain sometimes, though it had been more than nine years. The doctors said it was psychological, and might never go away.

When Stephanie saw the blade go in, she started screaming and couldn't stop. She stumbled back a few steps and sat on the metal steps, clutching at her face, lips drawn back as she screamed.

Damian felt sick, but he couldn't turn away.

The screaming turned into a sick sort of wailing keen as she staggered towards the screen. Then she saw the Heretic, saw the face under the helmet, and she turned aside and threw up. Her knees buckled from under her, and she sat weeping next to the desk, covered in greasy smudges and her mouth sticky with vomit.

He turned it off silently.

He knew now why his father had buried it in a list of password-locked subfolders as long as Damian's arm. He could have just deleted it, but it might have been invaluable in some unforseen future crisis, and Batman never got rid of anything that might end up being useful someday.

_Except Stephanie._

Damian's mouth was sour, his stomach clenched almost painfully. He took a deep breath to relax, though low-level anger still hummed through him.

He was too keyed up to get any sleuthing work done tonight, he could tell.

After a long moment, he put his work away and wandered down to the cave. It was empty now, his father at work, his 'siblings' maintaining their day jobs. There was no one to prevent him from leaving.

\-----

It had been a grey day in Gotham, smog and mist hanging over the city as the sun set in a bloody red stain. Damian put on street clothes, his favorite jacket noticeably tight across the shoulders now, and got on his bike.

He spent a few minutes just driving, trying to clear his head, before he gave in to his curiosity. His new helmet had an upgraded computer system that was voice activated. He grudgingly searched for the last place the Red Hood had been sighted, and came up with an address three blocks from the last night's drug bust.

The trip to East Gotham was an easy one, the streets suspiciously empty of cars and trucks. Damian was wary until he remembered that there was some sporting event going on at the stadium downtown. Gotham's criminals might not have much in the way of civic duty, but they had an over-abundance of pride in their sports teams.

He pulled up to the address and parked his bike, pulling off his helmet.

It was a normal sandwich shop, with patrons ordering in loud voices while pop music played in the background. His shoulders slumped. He'd been hoping for something a little more sinister.

“Excuse me, are you looking for something?” asked a teenaged employee in a red polo shirt. She'd been sweeping the patio, but she paused as Damian looked at her.

Damian opened his mouth to say no, then hesitated. “Do you know a blonde woman named Stephanie who comes in here? About five-foot-seven, a hundred and fifty pounds, talks a lot?”

The girl leaned on her broom. Her nametag read 'Nell Little.' “What, are you some kind of cop? She in some kind of trouble?” He noted that her knuckles were callused; she obviously boxed or did some kind of martial arts.

“What? No, I'm not a cop,” he said, realizing belatedly that his words did sound like a description given by law enforcement. “My name is Damian. I'm her... friend,” he added. “We've lost touch in the past few months, but I saw her yesterday, and I was hoping to say hello. She mentioned that she likes your sandwiches,” he lied.

“What's her favorite food?” Nell asked suspiciously, and Damian sighed.

“Waffles,” he said, “or anything covered in chocolate. She's also fond of Spicy Hot Cheetos.” He mentally shuddered – he'd had a handful once, at her insistence, and had definitely not enjoyed the experience.

It worked. The girl – Nell – smiled, and blew a bubble with her gum. “Yeah, I know Steph. She comes by here for lunch every day. Her and her boyfriend. You know, the big guy. I think his name is Jay.”

“Oh,” Damian said, feeling silly. Of course they came here for lunch. He'd just have to come back tomorrow. “Well, I suppose I'll have to see her some other day. Thanks for everything.” He thrust his hands into his pockets, digging out his keys and revving his motor. He was just as frustrated now as he'd been this morning, but _now_ he had to go home to his father. He had to return and put on his suit and go out on patrol as though nothing had happened.

“Hey, wait,” said Nell, breaking into his reverie. “I know where they live, if you really need to see her. I deliver their food sometimes,” she explained. “I can give you directions.”

Damian blinked at her. “I- thank you. That would be very helpful.”

Nell pulled out her order pad and a pen and started writing. “There's something I should tell you first though,” she said, and he made a questioning noise in the back of his throat.

Her dark brown eyes bored into his. “She's a really nice person and if you're lying to me, and you try to hurt her, I'm gonna turn your ass in to the police so fast you'll have whiplash. Capiche?” Her finger stabbed into the front of his leather jacket. “If you fuck with her, and if you somehow manage to avoid her boyfriend's wrath, you're answering directly to _me._ ”

She leaned back and smiled, smoothing out her shirt. “Drive safely,” she said sweetly, and he pulled away before she could offer to go with him.

It took him less than five minutes to follow Nell's directions.

It was a normal apartment. He really needed to stop expecting some sort of Bond villain-esque setup. Unless it was underground, there was no top-secret evil lair here. Just a generally nice apartment building, with small covered porches and a spiked fence. There was slight water damage to the stucco, but it was recent.

He tucked his helmet under his arm and started up the steps, rapping smartly on the door.

He felt the cold sting of metal against his neck before he heard anyone approach. “Now what's a little Bat like you doing in a place like this?” came Stephanie's voice, deceptively friendly. The hand that wasn't holding the gun came up and ruffled his hair, much to his irritation.

“I came to see you,” he said stiffly. “I spoke to my father. I wanted to apologize for the way I behaved yesterday evening.”

The gun moved away from his head, and he turned around. Stephanie leaned nonchalantly against the railing, weapon already tucked out of sight. She wore jean shorts and a blue t-shirt with some kind of band logo on it. Over her clothes lay a rainbow-striped scarf, that Damian avoided staring at for fear of retinal scarring.

It was much more obvious in these clothes how much she'd changed. She'd always been solidly built, but she'd recently added a layer of harder muscle. His trained eye picked up new scars on her skin, but they were nothing unusual in their line of work. He exhaled a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

“So,” she continued, fingers drumming idly on the railing. “You're here to apologize. Let's hear it.” She had a hard look in her eyes, like she was testing him. He supposed that was fair. Considering his parentage, any offer of apology was, at best, unlikely to be fulfilled politely.

He took a deep breath. “I'm sorry. I should have believed what you said about my father, and I should have tried harder to contact you after your... break from the team. It was an error made of pride and selfishness to not seek you out.” He gave a half bow before realizing that she probably wouldn't understand the intent behind it; many of his teachers had been of East Asian descent, and sometimes he still automatically defaulted to the most respectful action.

But Stephanie wasn't laughing at him. She studied him seriously, pale blue eyes unwavering. “Alright,” she said after a minute. She sounded a little reluctant. “You can come in. But only because you sounded like you meant it.” She pulled out a set of keys, complete with a clunky keychain shaped like the Batman symbol. He could see where two of her fingers would slot into it; it was meant to double as brass knuckles.

“You like it?” she asked, noticing his look. “Jason got it for my birthday.” She unlocked all five locks, pulled back the deadbolt, then ushered him in.

The apartment was unremarkable. It looked too normal, too average, to be the home of two of Gotham's most famous vigilantes.

Stephanie dropped her keys into a dish on a table near the door, then shrugged off her scarf. “Come on in, D,” she said, flopping onto one of the big blue-green couches. “Mi casa es su casa,” she quipped.

Damian looked around awkwardly, trying to find a polite way to ask 'is your murderous boyfriend home' and failing. “It's a nice place,” he said finally.

She smiled. “Yeah. It feels like I've lived here forever.”

“How long _have_ you lived here?”

She considered. “Full time? Around three months. Ever since Jay and I got together.” She shrugged. “I still go see my mom sometimes, but all my stuff's here.”

“And Todd? He lives here as well?” He didn't try to hide the sour twist to his mouth.

She nodded. “He owns the place.” She threw him a look. “Sit down, D. I'm probably not gonna bite you.”

“That's not very reassuring,” he remarked, but he took the offered seat.

“So,” she said, steepling her fingers and turning towards him with a mock-serious expression. “Tell me about your journey, young Padawan.”

He stared at her in silence for a moment, running the unfamiliar word through every language he knew and coming up blank.

Then her face melted into surprise, and a little regret, before settling on resigned. “Sorry. I should have known better than to make a pop culture reference around you. I forgot that we hadn't gotten to Star Wars yet in your reeducation-”

They both looked up at the sound of a key in the lock. Damian's first thought was _run, RUN_ , but Stephanie was completely calm, and if she was relaxed, surely he could be too. He forced himself to remain still as Todd opened the door and stared at them.

“I thought I smelled fresh meat,” he said, shrugging off his jacket. “But I thought it was more along the lines of a playmate.” His eyes never left Damian's. “Sorry, kiddo, but you're a little young to fool around with the big kids.”

“I'm a legal adult,” he snapped, failing to hide the flush in his cheeks. “And I have no interest in 'fooling around' with either of you.”

“'The lady doth protest too much, methinks,'” Todd quoted with a grin. “What, did you swing by hoping for a little action from the bad boys' – excuse me Steph, bad people's– club?” He swiped a hand through his ear-length hair, humming under his breath. His eyes flickered over Damian's body, to the boy's intense embarrassment. “Well, well. I guess you did get some of your old man's genes. You're what, six-two?” He collapsed onto the other couch, big limbs sprawling over the furniture.

Damian rolled his eyes. “Six-three,” he replied. “Though I fail to see how my height has anything to do with the subject at hand.” He got to his feet. “I'm sorry to intrude. I just wanted to speak with Stephanie somewhere other than in the middle of an illicit drug den.” He nodded to the older man, who shrugged.

Stephanie followed him to the door. “You're leaving already?” she asked, a hint of petulance in her voice. “I thought we were going to watch Star Wars!”

Todd raised an eyebrow. “Was this movie night? Were we going to do movie night with the three worst Robins?”

Damian closed his eyes in frustration. “There were no plans for a movie night, Todd. Stephanie merely remembered that I hadn't seen Star Wars, and expressed regret in not rectifying that fact.”

Stephanie elbowed him in ribs, which he rubbed balefully. “Stop acting like you don't want to see them,” she reprimanded. “And you,” she said to Jason, “stop acting like you're not interested. You're _always_ up for movie night.”

Todd leaned back and stretched, big shoulders popping as he rolled his neck. “I'm up for anything if there's food involved,” he said, “and I don't think he's hiding any in those skinny jeans.”

Stephanie propped her hands on her hips. “Hey, I bought him those. Don't diss the Levi's.” She looked back at Damian. “You wanna grab some dinner and we can watch the first two? Jay's got the box set.”

Damian hesitated, looking between the two. Jason seemed agreeable, or at least more agreeable than he'd been last night. Stephanie was eager to have him here, and that was something he dared not pass up.

“Alright,” he said reluctantly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Stephanie clapped her hands. “Awesome. We can take your bike.” She looked at Jason, who remained sprawled over the couch. “You get the movie ready, you overgrown lapdog. We'll be back in a few minutes.” She practically dragged Damian out, thankfully leaving her horrendous scarf behind in her haste.

“Thanks a lot, D,” she said as they got to his bike. “I think it'll be good for him to see that you're not as much of a jerk as your dad is. No offense.”

“None taken,” he said, climbing on. He handed her the helmet and paused. “You forgot a jacket,” he said, pulling his off.

Stephanie blinked at him as he thrust the leather into her hands. “Oh. Um. Thanks.” It was at least three sizes too big on her, but it would keep the wind out. She climbed on behind him, and he felt her wrap her hands around him. He breathed in deeply, trying not to focus on her warmth against his back.

“Take a left up there,” she murmured into his ear, and he shivered, following her directions.

They stopped at a tiny pizza place a few blocks away, and Damian let her take care of ordering. She knew his tastes, and doubtless she knew Todd's order by heart. But when it came time to pay, he pushed her wallet away. “My treat,” he said, repeating what he'd heard his father say a thousand times.

She grinned at him. “Thanks, Mr. My-Dad's-Rolling-in-Dough.”

“Don't forget my mother,” he reminded her, lifting the boxes of pizza off the counter. Stephanie grabbed the garlic bread and the over-dressed salad. “And my grandfather. It would be more accurate to say that we're swimming in it. Drowning, possibly.”

“And modest, too,” she muttered, smirking as she settled onto the bike. He rested the pizza on the handlebars, and started the engine.

“Come on, jerkface,” she said, pulling him into her. “Let's go home.”

The ride home was shorter than he would have liked, and once she'd released him, he missed the warmth and weight of her arms.

Todd was delighted to see them, if the way he rushed to take two of the boxes was any indication. “I love you,” he moaned through a mouthful of pepperoni, and Stephanie and Damian exchanged glances, not entirely sure if he was speaking to them or to the pizza itself.

The movies were passable, at best, the fighting inaccurate and the weapons implausible. He and Stephanie each ate most of a box of pizza, while Todd consumed the third and fourth plus several pieces of garlic bread.

Despite his general lack of interest in the film, Damian felt the breath hiss through teeth when Vader revealed himself. He couldn't stop staring at Luke's face, at the betrayal and disbelief on his features. Damian berated himself; he spoke fluent German, he knew what _vater_ meant, and yet he'd missed the connection.

“That was awesome,” Stephanie crowed when the film had ended. She stretched, one hand covering her stomach. “Oh, god, I'm so full.” She looked at Todd, whose stomach was visibly distended, and then at Damian, who thought he'd never be able to eat again. “I have ice cream,” she said cautiously, and suddenly they found they had more room.

Afterwards, Damian rubbed a hand over his face. He hadn't eaten this much in years, perhaps in his entire lifetime. He felt like he was on the verge of sickness, almost painfully full.

“I don't know how well strawberry ice cream and chocolate sauce go with pizza,” he admitted, and Jason laughed.

“You haven't lived until you've eaten yourself sick,” he said, clapping Damian on the shoulder. “And when you turn twenty-one, we're gonna take you out and get you wasted. My treat.”

Stephanie came out of the kitchen holding two glasses of water and some alka-seltzers. Jason took one and began to chug. “Drink all of it,” she ordered Damian, handing him the other. “Otherwise you're gonna feel pretty awful tomorrow.”

He obeyed.

Stephanie laughed, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair. “You cut your hair without me, D?” She sounded a little sad.

“Only at Pennyworth's behest. He told me I looked like a sheepdog.” He ducked his head a little to give her better reach as her nails scratched behind his ear.

“You do get kind of shaggy when you don't trim it,” she said. “But I like the new 'do. Never figured you for a fauxhawk kinda guy, but you're just full of surprises.”

He felt himself turn red. “I saw it in an advertisement,” he mumbled. He'd never admit that he'd thought of her when he saw it.

She smiled up at him, all blue eyes and soft face and tiny scars dotting her skin.

He leaned forward hesitantly, and kissed her. She didn't move, didn't breathe, her lips soft under his.

She stared at him, shocked, when he pulled back.

He was instantly contrite. “Sorry,” he said, stepping away. He looked up at Jason, whose eyebrows had all but disappeared under his bangs. “Sorry,” he repeated, hoping fervently that no one in the room was going to try to disembowel him for what he'd just done.

To his surprise, Jason chuckled. “Sorry for what?” he asked, folding his hands behind his head. “If she'd wanted to avoid that, you'd be digging your 'nads out of your spleen by now.” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, taking a long drag. “Besides, who she kisses is her business.” He nodded, blowing the smoke down and away from Damian, for which his sensitive nose was grateful.

Damian's mouth opened and closed silently for a moment. Stephanie was still staring at him, unmoving, and he took that as the worst possible sign.

“I should go,” he said finally, weakly, and fled, grabbing his jacket and helmet off the couch and nearly sprinting down the steps to his bike.

He was down the street before he let himself curse the way he wanted to, in every language he knew, feeling his heart slamming against his ribcage.

 _Stupid,_ he thought furiously, ignoring the stinging at the corner of his eyes. He opened the throttle wider, speeding up. _I'm so stupid._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someday I'm going to stop writing awkward Damian/Steph first kisses. But it is _not this day._


End file.
